Jaffa Beach: Historical Fiction (45 page)

In the airplane Shlomi opened the notes he had taken while Mazal translated Amina’s letters, especially what she wrote about his father, but Amina had only mentioned that Musa traveled a lot and changed residences often. Shlomi was disappointed. Why did he want to know if his father remarried and if there were other siblings?

Shlomi closed his eyes. He could not remember his father’s face, his voice. He whispered Abu Selim, Musa, but it didn’t help.

Bath enchanted him. A city of flowers, large avenues, unhurried people walking slowly and greeting their acquaintances, groups of mothers strolling with baby carriages, and above all the mild temperature that was like a call to be outdoors. Glass windows of shops and restaurants featured festival posters. A poster on an easel, including pictures of the performers, his among them, stood in front of Bath Abbey where the concerts took place.

“Good acoustics, the rehearsal went well,” Shlomi reported to D’vora, when he called her at noon. “Now I have free time to explore the city.”

“There is a lot to see,” D’vora sounded excited. “I read about Bath’s history. Since the Roman times its mineral springs have made the city famous. The Georgian style of architecture is also interesting. Memorize every detail so I can see the city through your eyes.”

“Maybe you can smell the flowers on me also,” teased Shlomi, “the nature here is intoxicating.”

“Don’t forget to take a Roman bath, it has healing power.”

“I would if we’d bathe together. No fun just by myself.”

Shlomi was still smiling, remembering the conversation. Lazily, he opened the pages of the Bath telephone book. He looked for George Gardner, Amina’s husband. Wow, quite a lot of Gardners–of course in a city with so many gardens–at least five baptized George, which one could be Amina’s husband? Why should he bother looking for her? Even if he finds her, what would he say?
Here is your long-lost nephew, the Jewish one, the target of your hatred, who can’t even explain what urges him to look
for
you
. Oh, I am an idiot.

At the top of a page he saw A&G Gardner, 44 Brock Street. Could this stand for Amina and George? He dialed the number.

“Hello,” a woman answered.

“Are you Mrs. Gardner, I mean Mrs. Amina Gardner?”

“Yes,”

“Greetings from Samira,” Shlomi felt knots in his throat.

“Samira.” A pause, “Do you speak Arabic?”

“No, Ma’am. I am a volunteer at the old folks’ home where she lives. My name, sorry, I didn’t introduce myself, is Al, Al Sand.
Lie, go ahead, lie, why would the son be different from his mother?

Silence.

“Well, good day, Ma’am. I fulfilled my promise.”

“Wait, wait, please, Mister, ahh….”

“Sand, Mrs. Gardner, Al Sand.”

“Mr. Sand, you took me by surprise. Samira, oh, I miss her so, she was like a mother to all of us. It’s hard to believe that I haven’t seen her in twenty-five years.”

“She talks a lot about you and your family.”

“How do you know, does she speak Hebrew?”

“Our volunteers include people who speak Arabic. We encourage the old people to tell their life stories. It keeps them alert.”

“What else do the volunteers do?”

“We entertain, some of us sing, some play instruments.
What a fool I’m making of myself
. Others help with physical exercises, for people like Samira, who has arthritis in her hands and can’t….”

“I’ve got an idea, Mr., Mr., excuse me I didn’t retain your name.

“Al Sand.”

“Mr. Sand, I’d like to invite you for a cup of coffee with some delicious Bath pastries.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Shlomi got spooked.
What started as a joke…

“
I insist,” Amina said. “I know you are Jewish.” S
he didn’t say Israeli
. “Yet I think it’s beautiful that you care for our Arab brethren. Once I had a Jewish sister-in-law,” she sighed, “whom I loved like a sister.”

“Sorry, I have to go now.”

“Please, let’s meet someplace. Do me a favor. I want to send Samira a woolen shawl. You know how cold and rainy Jaffa’s winters are.”

“I am here for only a short time.”

“Four o’clock this afternoon, at Sally Lunn Refreshment House. It’s a tourist attraction, one of Bath’s landmarks. I’ll wear a green raincoat and have a green umbrella. See you, Mr. Sand.”

Four in the afternoon and my concert starts at seven. What drives me to get involved with her, except my yetzer hara
, my evil instinct.

Shlomi contemplated himself in the bathroom mirror. The moustache had been D’vora’s idea. She said, laughing, “You look so young, nobody will take you seriously.”

“I think a moustache would emphasize my Arab origins,” he answered, but he listened to her suggestion.

At quarter to four, dressed in jeans, sneakers and a sweat shirt, Shlomi sat waiting at a small table in the back of Sally Lunn pastry shop. He wore dark glasses. Posters of his concert covered the walls. He wanted to be there early, to observe her first. When the Abbey clock chimed four times, Amina entered. Shlomi recognized her
from her description, a woman in her forties, tall and good-looking. He walked toward her. “I have only fifteen minutes,” he said when they shook hands, “The guide is meeting our group very soon.”

Amina took a long look at him, which made Shlomi fidget.

“I can’t tell you why, but you remind me of somebody,” she said, “your complexion, your hair. Maybe somebody I knew when I was young.”

Maybe my father
, Shlomi was relieved that she couldn’t see his eyes.

“Since your call this morning,” Amina said, “I haven’t done anything but let the memories fill my heart. I’ve seen myself surrounded by my family, my mother, my three sisters, my two brothers, Samira, such a lovely clan. Then my brother fell in love with a Jewish girl he saved from drowning and married her.”

A waiter came to the table to take their order.

“You are my guest,” Amina said quickly. “While in Bath you must try Sally Lunn buns. They are famous.”

“Thanks, you really shouldn’t, I feel embarrassed.”

“I didn’t picture you so young, but your voice told me that you were a good and compassionate person…please eat,” Amina said as their order appeared on the table. “It’s Sally Lunn’s own recipe.”

Seeing her motherly look, Shlomi forced himself to eat, though he had no appetite.

“Until her death my mother thought that Suha, my brother’s Jewish wife, brought the
nackba
upon us. But that wasn’t true. Powers outside our little world decided our fate. We were like pawns in a chess game.”

Amina started crumbling her bun. “When we were reunited I hoped that we’d live close to one another, but before long our family dispersed. My older brother travels continuously. My twin sister lives now with her two sons who opened a car repair shop. Another sister lives in London. Rama, our younger sister, is a student of history and world affairs. She hopes to bring peace
to the world. Peace,” she sighed. “I don’t even know where my younger brother is.”

Amina lowered her head, “Please excuse me. My prattle must tire you.”

“Not at all,” protested Shlomi. He was afraid that saying more would show how much her words touched him.

Amina sipped her coffee, her eyes distant, “Today after my reminiscences, I started wondering if we’d ever grow roots in this country.”

“I understand you,” Shlomi said. “My grandparents emigrated from Germany, to escape the greatest tragedy in human history. Yet it was difficult for them to erase the old country; they spoke German at home and with their friends, a little colony of German Jews living in Israel.”

“My only wish, “Amina said, “is for my brother Musa, to be able to reunite with his son. I think he dashes around the world, like the Flying Dutchman, only to forget his sorrow.”

Shlomi became restless.
One more minute I’ll lose my composure
. “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay longer.” He took her hands in his. “I hope that one day you’ll decide to visit Samira.” Shlomi felt a lump forming in his throat. “I’m glad we’ve met.”

Amina stood up, “Do you allow me to hug you?”

Shlomi nodded. He couldn’t speak.

As they left the coffee shop he impulsively asked, “Do you enjoy concerts? The Bath Music Festival is on right now.”

“Music is my husband’s domain,” she answered. “Unfortunately it wasn’t part of my education. My husband says that I don’t realize how much I miss.”

“I happen to have two free tickets for the concert tonight. Maybe your husband would like to go.” Shlomi took an envelope out of his pocket.

“Will you be there?” Amina asked.

“Perhaps,” Shlomi answered, and hurried to leave.

Amina’s Letter

July 15, 1969


Dear Mr. Shlomi Gal
,


Or should I address you “also known as Mr. Al Sand,” since I have little doubt you are one and the same person. This letter has been waiting more than a month to be sent. Not because I didn’t know where to send it. The Bath Music Festival gave my husband the address of your management in New York, though George, my husband, opposed my writing you
.


Dear Mr. Gal, on the day of your concert in Bath, which my husband and I enjoyed tremendously, Mr. Sand, an Israeli, called and said he brought me greetings from my old nanny. I was born in Palestine and though I left the country twenty–five years ago, talking to Mr. Sand opened a flood of nostalgic memories for things past
.


Mr. Sand and I met that afternoon and as we bade good-bye, he gave me two tickets for your concert. My husband, a music lover, convinced me to go. The delightful Mozart overture with which the concert started made me feel at ease, although I’m not a music aficionado
.


Imagine my shock when you appeared on stage. Maybe I screamed when I recognized you, but thankfully the thunder of applause with which you were greeted covered my outburst. I gripped my husband’s arm. “It’s him,” I whispered in one breath, “it’s the fellow I met this afternoon, the one who gave me the tickets.”


“You must be mistaken,” my husband whispered back. “At supper you didn’t stop talking about him, Samira, your reminiscences. Now let’s enjoy the concert.”


People started shush-shushing around us. I had never heard the Mendelssohn concerto before, but as the music soared, I felt lifted into new realms. The slow movement, so human in its sadness, spoke directly to my heart, the heart of a childless sorrowful woman
.


And your encore! The conductor announced that the piece, the J.S. Bach chorale “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desire,” was your own transcription for violin and orchestral accompaniment. It so suited our stately Abbey and the audience’s sentiments
.


“Let’s go to congratulate him,” I urged my husband at the end, though I knew he was a shy person. But you were already gone! And to my disappointment I couldn’t find out if you were who I thought. “Forget it,” my husband said. But I couldn’t
.


A week ago, I received a letter written in English by the manager of the old folk’s home in Jaffa. Samira, whose eyes are failing, had begged her to write me a thank you note for the shawl I sent her.


Samira dictated also the following words: “Now I feel that I can die in peace. Allah in his great wisdom had granted my wish to see our young master. What I hoped for, with Allah’s will, is going to be accomplished.”


Who are you? Why do I continue to feel there is a connection between your call, the concert, and the latest letter from Samira? Please help resolve this riddle
.


Your faithful admirer, Amina Gardner


P.S. I kept the program from your concert. I reread your bio and found another coincidence between Mr. Sand’s and your upbringing. You were both raised by a German-born grandfather. It’s hard to believe that it is just a coincidence
.


5 2

January 1970

“I
’m at the Tokyo airport. We’ll take off in half an hour,” Shlomi’s hoarse voice startled D’vora.

“What happened?” she asked, turning on the light. “Do you realize that it’s four in the morning in New York?” When he didn’t answer, she continued. “Didn’t you promise Otto that at the end of your tour you’d join him in Germany? He was so looking forward to being with you on his first visit back to the old country. You were the one who encouraged him to take this trip, Shlomi.”

“I’ve already spoken with Otto. He understands. I’m tired, D’vora. One month in Japan, playing each day in another city, I feel exhausted. I wonder if I’m cut out for this life.”

“My darling, D’vora’s special recipe for chicken soup will heal you in less than twenty-four hours. Her soup and her love,” she blew him kisses and hung up.

D’vora was worried, Shlomi, usually so joyous after returning from his tours, sounded tired. Maybe he had a cold.
Do the Japanese heat their houses in winter
? She knew so little about Japan.

At Kennedy airport a pale, frail Shlomi embraced her. “I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed,” he said.

“Not before drinking a cup of hot tea and some chicken soup,” D’vora answered, her maternal instinct awakened.

“I bought you the most beautiful kimono in Kyoto,” Shlomi whispered as he was falling asleep. “Cherry blossoms embroidered on white silk. For the mistress of my heart, I told the seller.”

D’vora tucked him in bed. Men are like children when they don’t feel well, she mused, smiling, before unpacking his bags.
A month is a long time to travel without a woman at one’s side
. The shirts and tuxedo had to go to the cleaners, but wait! What was hidden under his music? She saw an English-Arabic dictionary, another one, Hebrew-Arabic, and a book, “The Thousand Words Most Used in the Arab Language.”